Ben Lerwill, London, wins an Asus netbook for his report from Uruguay, the
winning entry of the beaches category of our travel writing competition.

Colonia del Sacramento sits lightly on Uruguay’s winding coastline. On approach, from the toffee-brown waters of the Rio de la Plata , it’s almost as though it’s not there at all. The arriving traveller sees ships, sand and a headland full of trees – great green boughs interlinked in the sunshine. There seems to be nothing else, save a lighthouse and a couple of basic spires above the canopy. A town? In there? Surely not.

“Bienvenido a Colonia,” says a tobacco-voiced official at the harbour, dapper in white. Behind him, a scooter mutters along the road; dogs lie flat in the shattering heat. Everything else stays camouflaged. We begin walking towards the trees of town. Fresh scents of foliage mingle in the brackish air and, little by little, like an old masterwork being dusted down, the place starts to reveal itself.

Colonia del Sacramento was founded by the Portuguese in 1680. The era was thick with distrust and cannon smoke. The settlement quickly became a base from which its rulers could smuggle goods across to Buenos Aires, then under the Spanish crown. It made Colonia ripe for conflict. The chunky fortifications that still stand changed hands regularly and brutally.

Today’s streets are cobbled and leaf-shaded – wide fragrant corridors with red shop awnings and little traffic. It is lunchtime, and an ageing waiter is laying gingham tablecloths over pavement tables. He moves slowly as meat grills on the other side of the kitchen-bar’s open windows. The smell is intense. He has three customers: old men watching the sun beat down. We sit.

Eighty miles away, Argentineans claim to produce the best steak on the continent. Their neighbours here across the estuary disagree. The meat is thick and charred to perfection, served with torn hunks of fresh bread and a punchy chimichurri sauce. We share a bottle of local Tannat wine and sit for a while as bicycles drift past into the afternoon.

There’s a sense everywhere of a city in slow motion, overlooked by the march of time. Exploration is most natural on foot. The old town is home to vintage cars and faded paintwork, sturdy colonial houses and quiet grassy courtyards. Most evocative is the Calle de los Suspiros – the street of sighs. Its sloping stucco walls and yellow lanterns stand over a sleeping mess of wonky cobbles. Everything about it is still.

As birdsong busies the trees, we stroll farther down to the water’s edge. The sun is still warm but lower now, casting our shadows back behind us. To the north, past the fishing piers, a long pale beach stretches into the distance. We walk to it, reaching a bar for sundown.

The stools at the counter face shelves of dusty bottles. Footballers from other eras look out from photographs – there is a pleasant, indistinct smell of age. The sands outside hold the last glows of daylight. Tending to his small domain, the barman takes forever to serve customers. It seems apt. In a town like this, why rush?